


A Very Strange Agony

by mermaiddrunk



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 07:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2499422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mermaiddrunk/pseuds/mermaiddrunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after episode 17. Carmilla dreams the same dream, except this time, it's different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Strange Agony

Humans.

 _Ugh._  

How many times was it going to end this way before she learned her lesson? It isn’t a particularly hard lesson to learn either: Humans are erratic and fear-driven and impetuous.

All of these qualities are embodied in the scowling redhead, towering above her. The not-so-gentle giant (who packs a surprising right hook) is flanked by Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dummer.

She’s profoundly ashamed that these lack wits managed to overpower her.

She can’t see Laura… doesn’t particularly want to see Laura. Naïve, provincial girl indeed. And it always ends like this doesn’t it? The ropes and the garlic and someone being tied to a chair. Yet, this isn’t the end… far from it, and these Van Helsing groupies are about to learn that the hard way.   

They argue about what to do with her. Apparently their half-baked plan didn’t include dealing with a dead girl at a luau. The neanderthal named Kitch or Kash or something equally ridiculous wants their help but they’re hesitant to leave her and so the conjoined floor dons run off to the rescue, duty bound, leaving the intrepid duo alone with her.

There’s some more arguing. Laura saying she’ll stay. Danny saying “I’m not leaving you with  _her_.”

Of course she could turn her head to see them, but doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of thinking she cares. Because, she doesn’t care. Not even a little. This is all going to blow up in their faces anyway. Even Laura, Laura whom she stupidly thought… but that doesn’t matter anymore.

They move outside, to the hallway, where people are shuffling and panicking. They speak under their breath as if she wouldn’t be able to hear. She doesn’t listen though. She doesn’t want to hear whispered assurances and Danny saying, “I’ll check up on you as soon as I can,” and the moment of silence between them which could have been a hug or perhaps something more intimate. Fear breeds intimacy. She knows this well.

She smoothly rolls herself around to face the door as Laura walks in. Alone.

Without her merry band, the bravado from before seems to have worn off, leaving her unsure and looking even smaller than she usually does.

Carmilla raises her head just a little, until her gaze meets Laura’s. And then she glowers as hard as she can.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that.” Laura paces between the two beds, gesticulating emphatically. “This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t gone and been all vampirey.”

When Carmilla’s glower intensifies, Laura goes on, rambling nervously in that way that she does.  In that way Carmilla thinks is both ridiculous and charming, or did, before she was betrayed, bound and threatened.

“Not that I’ve got a vampire prejudice or anything, I signed that interspecies marriage petition last week. I’m all for equality, in all its shapes and weirdness. Unless… you don’t sparkle do you? Because that’s just…” she wrinkles her nose. “Anyway, the point is, we’ve got pictures of you at the parties where the girls went missing. I  _saw_  you with Elsie. We know you have something to do with it. And, and we’ll get your accomplice too, or accomplices.” She motions towards the door, as if Carmilla’s imagined “accomplices” are standing out in the hallway twirling their villainous moustaches. “However big this thing is, we’ll stop it. And when we provide real evidence, namely you, the Dean will have to do something about it.”

The force of Carmilla’s eyeroll is so intense, she’s surprised they haven’t fallen from eye sockets. She doesn’t try to speak. It wouldn’t do much good. Besides, at this point, the less she says, the better. She’s going to be in enough trouble as it is.

So she watches Laura pace restlessly, half-accusing, half-apologetic. In other circumstances, it would have been amusing. Endearing even. Now she’s just tired. And the ropes are tight, surprisingly well-bound. She wonders if the Perry girl was a former Styria Scout. Brownies were known for their skill with knots (also housework, shoe-making, and evaporating into thin air).

An hour after The Great Vampire Capture, Laura gets a text from her not-quite girlfriend. Carmilla watches her eyes flicker over the screen of her flip phone and the little upturn of lips, no doubt in response to a stupid smiley face or some other cutesy combination of punctuation marks this technologically dependant age seems to think romantic. She types back furiously, then frowns at the next text. A moment later the phone rings. Carmilla’s surprised. She didn’t think they did that any more - actual verbal communication over phones.

“I can’t just leave her like this,” Laura mutters through gritted teeth. “What if she needs to go to the bathroom or something?”

A beat and then, “I know, I know, but can’t we move her somewhere?”

She’s quiet for a long time, before sighing. “No, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And then she’s smiling, “Okay, but be careful.”

The dopey look on her face fades when she turns back.

“The situation has been contained. No-one is dead.” She frowns at Carmilla, “-or deader. Danny’s staying with the Summer Society tonight. They’re-” she stops here, as if considering how much to share.

“So, uh,” she raises her shoulders in an awkward kind of shrug, “Guess it’s just you and me… roomie.”

At this point, Carmilla closes her eyes and allows her head to slump back against the chair. She’s had enough of this night.

When she opens them again, Laura’s right there, in front of her, in that dress that makes her look like she’s stepped off the pages of a Brontë novel.

She reaches forward and gently tugs at the duct tape. “So, I’m just gonna…” She rips it off in one go, and Carmilla yelps, despite her very best efforts to remain stoic through this whole debacle.

“Sorry.”

Carmilla only glares.

Laura stands over her, with a sheepish sort of expression, as if waiting for her to speak, to scream, to call out to the forces of darkness.

But she keeps her mouth shut, despite her tingling lips and the urge to lick them.

Hours go by. Laura fidgets. She yawns. She tries valiantly to stay awake. In the end, she succumbs.

Carmilla watches her for the longest time. The rise and fall of her chest, the way her eyelashes flutter every so often. If she listens really carefully, she can hear the  _bum-bum, bum-bum_  of her pulse and the steady jump of her jugular. This time, she does lick her lips. They’re chapped and sticky.

When she eventually falls asleep, it’s to the rhythmic beat of Laura’s heart. 

________________________

She’s had this dream before. It’s more of a memory, really. She finds herself a voyeur, watching it all take place, as if it were a photograph, where the colours, once vivid are now faint and transparent.

She stands in that ballroom, all those years ago, watching herself, watching it all play out. She can’t change what happens. She’s tried that before. She’s doomed to this place, doomed to watch it happen over and over again, and nothing ever changes, everything is the…

“What the hell?”

Carmilla whirls around.

Laura. In her “Cathy on the moors” dress, making her bunched-up angry face.

Laura here, in her dream. 

Carmilla manages an eloquent, “Wha-?!” before grabbing Laura’s puffy sleeve and dragging her outside (she’s seen this scene enough times to know that the balcony is unoccupied for the next hour or so).

She ignores the startled “Hey, what are you doing?” and looks around frantically to see if they’ve been noticed. She generally goes unnoticed during these sequences, but she’s not taking any chances.

“What’s going on? Where are we? How did you get loose? Is that a boar’s head ice-sculp-”

Getting Laura to shut up involves pressing three fingers against her mouth and effectively holding them there until she stops talking. “Will you just be quiet for one second?”

Around them, the ball goes on as usual. In a moment, the Grand Duke will spill champagne over himself, the orchestra will blow the trumpet to signify the opening of the first dance and they’ll all move to the floor.  

Once the music fills the room and filters through into the night air and strains of Tchaikovsky mingle with the sounds of cicadas and nightjars, she tentatively pulls her fingers away from Laura’s startled face.

“Okay,” Laura whispers, obviously making an effort to remain calm. “I’m just going to go ahead and ask…”

Carmilla raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“Are we—did you teleport us back in time?”

If there was ever a time to roll her eyes. “I’m a vampire, not a time lord.” She can make this reference because of that rainy Sunday afternoon she spent aggressively  _no_ t watching Laura and Danny huddled up on Laura’s bed, binge-watching some ridiculous show about a flying blue box.

“Well, I don’t know how these things work.” Laura’s voice rises in panic just a little. “Either the ban on History Society formals has been lifted, or we’re in the freakin’ 19th century.”

Carmilla sighs, as if this entire interaction has already exhausted her. “I think you’re in my dream.”

“ _I’m_  in your dream?”

“Or memory, whatever.” It’s difficult maintaining her preferred level of apathy with Laura just standing there, looking all confused and slightly awed and a little annoyed. It’s jarring, seeing her here, amongst these phantoms.

“How is that possible?” Laura crosses her arms over her chest, and scowls, as though the sheer will of her disbelief will be enough to undo whatever is happening.

“I don’t know,” Carmilla admits.

“Well, how do I get out? Let me out.”

“I didn’t let you in,” she snaps. “I don’t know what you did-”

“What  _I_  did? You’re the vampire – the one who’s been…”

“What?” Carmilla leans into her, until she’s so close, she can practically feel the air between them being sucked up as Laura inhales. “I’m the one who’s been what?”

“You know,” Laura’s voice goes small. “Being all mysterious and broody and kidnappy.” She swallows and drops her gaze to Carmilla’s mouth, millimetres away from hers. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots and Carmilla pulls back.

“It’s never even occurred to you, has it?” She shakes her head with a self-deprecating laugh. “No, why would it? God, if you had any idea how-” she trails off and leans her forearms against the railing, facing away from the crowd and into the night.

Laura says nothing for a moment, then turns and mirrors her posture. “So… tell me.” Her voice is quiet, probing. “Come on, this is dream, right? What happens in a dream, stays in a dream.”

“If only it was that easy.”

“It can be,” Laura offers a smile, like someone would offer sweet things to a child. It’s an unfair bribe.

Carmilla likes her smile.

All truths kept silent become poisonous. Nietzsche made his point well. Still, the consequences of this truth are too terrible, too dangerous, and Carmilla shakes her head. “I can’t. Not even for you.”

Silence falls over them. Carmilla senses Laura’s restlessness, but for once, Laura lets it go.

Behind them, the orchestra has moved on to Strauss’ Vienna Blood Waltz. She’s always loved this one.

“So what happens next?” Laura finally asks. She shivers in the cool air. “In the dream, what happens next?”

Carmilla shrugs lazily. “The party goes on, I don’t really engage. I wake up when the clock strikes twelve.”

Laura turns to watch the dancing over her shoulder. The grandfather clock against the wall. Eleven-twenty.

And then, quite unexpectedly, she reaches out and pinches at the flesh on Carmilla’s arm. She frowns when there’s no reaction and Carmilla glances down impassively at the small red mark starting to form on her bicep.

“Careful,” she drawls, her mouth pulling into a smirk. “Between this and the bondage, I’m beginning to think you’re a bit of a sadist.”

“I thought it was worth a shot.” Her grip loosens, though she keeps her fingers around Carmilla’s arm, her thumb idly swiping over the reddening flesh.

“It could be worse,” Carmilla murmurs, mesmerised by Laura’s attention. “You could be in the dream where I’m drowning in a well of blood and I can’t scream for fear of it filling my lungs and burning me from the inside out.”

Laura drops her hand and looks at Carmilla with a horrified expression. “Always the optimist.”

“I try.”

With a defeated sigh, Laura turns, and leans back against the railing, watching the figures on the dance floor twirl and dip.

“It’s sort of beautiful,” she breathes, and Carmilla watches her face, as she tilts her head, seemingly transfixed.

“Beautiful,” she agrees. She so focused on the slope of Laura’s exposed shoulder (it really is a very fine shoulder) that she misses the moment she had wanted to avoid.

And Laura squints into the crowd. “Hey, that’s… you. And wow, your hair’s really poofy.”

She had hoped, somewhat naively that Laura wouldn’t see her. The other her. It was a vain hope, considering how much attention she drew back then. The way they had orbited around her that night, like planets around a sun.

“It was the trend,” Carmilla counters laconically, scowling at herself - that long ago version of herself, so young, so hopeful, so hungry. “Besides, I don’t think you’re in any position to be judging my fashion choices.”

“Hey, I’m plenty trendy.”

“Whatever you say, cupcake.”

They continue to stare for a while, Carmilla still scowling, Laura fascinated.

When the faraway Carmilla shakes her head and holds up a hand to reject the suitor on her left Laura snorts. “Wow, that really is you.”

Another woman, a younger woman in a teal evening gown bounds up behind the other, long ago Carmilla, all youthful exuberance and Carmilla feels the weary muscle in her chest clench.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says suddenly, turning herself away from the scene. “This isn’t right.”

Something in her voice must shake Laura, who looks back at her with a frown that might, by a more hopeful soul, have been interpreted as concern.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Carmilla looks up at the stars, but finds the sky selfish with its gems. They’re hidden behind clouds. It would rain later, surprising the few gentlemen who came on horseback. Softly she murmurs, “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, for one thing, my roommate’s a vampire.”

“You know, you’ve really got to get over the whole vampire thing.”

“Maybe if you actually let me know what was going on?”

Carmilla raises her eyebrows as Laura sidles up to her until their shoulders touch. It’s a dirty move.

“I told you, I can’t.”

“But girls are missing. They could be hurt. If you could help, why wouldn’t-”

“Laura.” She says her name like a plea. “Just… drop it, okay.”

“They all think you’re involved,” Laura replies in a small, stubborn voice.

 _They_ , she had said. And for a moment, Carmilla feels the soft, warm tentacles of hope slither and expand inside of her.

“I don’t care what they think,” she responds apathetically. “Why should I?”

Laura makes an ‘ugh’ sound and shakes her head. “You’re infuriating.”

Carmilla smiles then, because Laura’s conniption, despite everything, is amusing. Because, as much as she wants to walk away from this tiny, exasperating human, something keeps pulling her back. A whispered voice telling her it might be different this time, and if not, it might be worth it. The pain, the death… no sacrifice without blood.

Slowly, deliberately, Carmilla trails a finger down Laura’s cheek, listening as her breath catches and her heartbeat flutters.

“When you stand in front of me and look at me, what do you know of the griefs that are in me and what do I know of yours. And if I were to cast myself down before you and weep and tell you, what more would you know about me than you know about Hell when someone tells you it is hot and dreadful?”

“I bet,” Laura swallows, her eyes fixed on Carmilla’s. “I bet you quote Kafka to all the girls.”

“Only the ones dressed as virgin sacrifices.”

She knows she shouldn’t do it. Every part of her rational mind is screaming at her to retreat. But this is not rational. It never was.

She finds her fingers under Laura’s chin and gently tips her head up.

“What are you doing?” Laura asks, as if she doesn’t already know, as if her body isn’t already leaning into Carmilla’s.

“What happens in a dream, stays in a dream, right?”

Laura searches her face for a moment and then closes the space between them.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock strikes twelve.

___________________________

She wakes up with dry mouth and rope burn. The last time that happened was 1903, in a Parisian opium den, under very different circumstances.

She swallows. She’d kill for a glass of B negative.

It takes her a moment to orientate herself, and then it all comes crashing back in one terrible wave.

Champagne. Laura. Being tackled by the ginger gladiator. Laura. Ropes, garlic, duct tape… and Laura.

Kissing Laura.

The last part, the dream part, swims around her head in a hazy, kind of wonderment that feels surreal as she sits here, now, tied up and humiliated.

“You’re awake.”

Her head snaps up to find the object of her agony, cross-legged on her bed, a heavy crucifix hanging off her neck.

“Courtesy of LaFontaine,” she says with an awkward smile, as Carmilla’s gaze falls to the cross.

“How thoughtful,” she drawls out.

Her eyes eventually move up and find Laura’s face, searching for any signs of recollection. “How did you sleep?” It’s said with all the nonchalance in the world.

“Great, actually. Better than I have in weeks.” She narrows her eyes at Carmilla. “Which I guess makes sense, considering the creepazoid factor has been contained.”

“So, no strange dre-”

The door bursts open, cutting off her sentence and in bound the league of extraordinary idiots. Laura practically leaps off the bed and towards Danny. They hug. Apparently this is a thing that happens now and Carmilla barely restrains herself from gagging.

“She’s awake,” Perry states the obvious. “Good, good, now we can question her like civilised members of society. Communication. That’s all it comes down to.”

“And if that fails, I’ve got these.”

They all look to LaFontaine. And Danny says, “Pencils? Really?”

“Well, we don’t have to stab her,” LaFontaine looks around the room as if it were obvious. “Just sort of… poke her.”

“No-one is poking anyone,” Laura interrupts, grabbing the bouquet of freshly sharpened HB pencils from LaFontaine’s hand. “Besides, Perry’s right. Again. We need to talk this through.”

Perry beams and Carmilla rolls her eyes. It’s as if they thought trying her up somehow affected her ability to hear their ridiculous babble.

“Interrogation it is.” LaFontaine wiggles their eyebrows. “But like, can we change the soundtrack?”

Danny chuckles. “Yeah, what’s with the elevator music?”

Laura looks back to her laptop, where Strauss’ Vienna Blood Waltz has been playing on repeat.

“Whaaat? I like it,” she says, a little defensively. “It’s kind of… dreamy.”

Behind them, Carmilla smiles.


End file.
